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Sherlock Holmes was at a bar.
A bar that was loud, horribly smelly, cramped, and overall uncomfortable. He would’ve left the second he came in, but now he doesn’t regret his decision of not leaving. If he did, he wouldn’t have met — and Sherlock uses that word loosely — John H. Watson, the comedian of Gerald’s Bar on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.
He meant to come here for a case, but it turned out to be unnecessary — Donovan and the others had cracked the man under investigation which ended up solving the case; Sherlock was oddly disappointed — and he knew he had the option to leave. However, the comedian himself drew Sherlock to stay and listen to the stories and jokes he had to tell.
Sherlock was listening intently along with everyone else around him. He laughed when everyone else laughed, and when was appropriate. Although the stories alone amused Sherlock, when he first saw John, his deductions drew Sherlock’s attention more.
Sherlock couldn’t be more intrigued by the man on the stage, only two seats away from him, hidden in the dark as all the light was over John. John was a medical military man (Sherlock got a bit too excited) and had an injury somewhere along his body. He had a cane, no family he’s close to, barely enough friends, but still managed to be, well, happy.
Sherlock can tell John has lived a traumatizing life as a soldier, no less a doctor, but somehow manages to radiate this kind of happiness and comfort and sincereness and all of these things that someone looks for in a friend, showing everybody around him that he’s not as damaged as some may think.
All that, though, Sherlock is surprisingly shocked at how happy he feels. It feels right, somehow, and Sherlock couldn’t get enough. Maybe it’s his happiness that makes me happy, Sherlock thought. Wait, no, stop thinking like that, Sherlock. That’s gay.
Listening back in on what the comedian was saying, Sherlock realized he started to tell a new story.
“So, I was in the bar the other night, doesn’t matter which night, because I’m lying, but I was in the bar the other night–“
And for some reason, one Sherlock may never know, he started howling in laughter.
It was embarrassing for Sherlock but at the same time, endearing to John. Sherlock hadn’t laughed at the same time as the others, which brought him unwanted attention as everybody had heard him. Even the comedian had stopped talking, noticeably smiling at Sherlock as he was laughing still, out of breath.
When Sherlock’s laughing turned into mere chuckling, he started to feel people’s stares, embarrassing him to no extent.
The comedian noticed this, and he spoke up. “Hey, what’s your name?” he asked Sherlock, pointing at him a little with a clear smile on his face.
Out of nowhere, a light came on Sherlock, not so strong, but not so faint either, that shined on his dark curls and his fancy clothing, with no regards towards his embarrassment. Sherlock must remember to find information about the lighting guy.
As the embarrassment stayed, he began blushing against his will. “Sh-Sherlock.” And he talked with a stutter. A stutter!
John smiled. “Your name is Sherlock?”
Sherlock nodded dumbly. “Sherlock. That’s cute. You’re cute. I like you.”
He blushed beyond relief.
“Stay until after?” the comedian asked.
And, of course, for another reason that Sherlock would never know, he nodded.